We should just have liked to have seen the stallëd ox, that’s all. But this assistant paymaster was a stout bulky little chap, and didn’t suffer half what we did. I’m certain he lived on his own fat all the way to the Cape, just as the sheep in the Highlands do, when they have the misfortune to be buried in the snow for a week or two. Our conversation all the dinner hour—when we weren’t quarrelling—used to be about this glorious feed, and the next glorious feed, which we once had; and it would certainly have been amusing for an outsider—who wasn’t hungry himself mind you—to have heard us, enlarging on all the dainties that had been set before us in happier times.
Our conversation would have been somewhat after the following fashion:—
S. “But, by George, when I was in the P. & O. Co.’s Service—ay, old fellows, that was the place to live—there is where we used to get the spreads.”
All. “Yes, yes; tell us, there’s a dear boy. What had you for dinner?”
S. “Well, you know, the bill of fare used to be two yards long, and a yard and a quarter wide. We had two soups, and then——”
All. “No, no; tell us first what the soups were?”
S. “Well, say vermicelli and macaro—Oh! hang it all, Moreton, that’s the third time to my certain knowledge, that you’ve helped yourself to rice.”
Moreton. “To-morrow’s pea-soup day, never mind.”
S. “But I do mind.”
All. “Go on with your yarn.”